


Something Wicked This Way Comes

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Gaslights [3]
Category: Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: F/M, Jack the Ripper's debut corpse, Mood Whiplash, Murder Victim - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13713537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: He knows what it looks like, when someone dies. He was at his great-grandmother’s side when she passed. It was very anti-climactic, really. She’d gasped a few times, and stopped, and just…never started again.Very much like this.





	Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always been of two minds on having Crane as a teacher. On one hand, he’s…into his subject. On the other hand, I can see him taking a disliking to somebody and using them as a ‘demonstration’-for a life-ruining lecture that exposes every single insecurity to the class. In keeping with the occasional character alterations (see: Hugo Strange), he’s not running around Gotham murdering people.
> 
> At this moment, anyway.

“-so serious.”

“Hm?” Jonathan Crane glances up from the stack of papers threatening to swallow him whole. “Did you say something, Kitty?”

This may not have been the wisest response-his wife scowls at him and raps his nose with her finger.

“You’ve got so serious since you took this job.” she says, drawing his face away from the dancing letters. “Surely they can’t be that bad.”

“But they _can_ , Kitty. They can be that bad. They are adults. And yet…yet the stupidity is worse.”

“Really-”

“You know what it is? They’re at that awful age that they can run out without Mother and Father and they think they _know_ everything. That’s what it is. Those wretched little brats-”

“You’re barely older than they are-”

He ignores her because he is _right_ and he _knows this._

“-have no appreciation for the workings of the human mind, they’re taking this course because they think if they use enough large words-”

“Stoppit.” she says, but she’s laughing at him. Humph. He doesn’t think this is funny. This is the future of humanity that he holds in his hands. The future. Of. _Humanity_. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Of all the people who end up murdered in Gotham, why not these fools? At least that damned Robert Dribb, I swear if I hear one more attempt to convince me that _lust_ is at the root of human behavior, just one more-”

“Put out an ad, then.”

He doesn’t feel that she’s taking this very seriously at all. She should be. This the new generation of doctors, after all. What if she needs to visit one?

He shoves his chair back and picks her up, ignoring her squeak of surprise.

“This is _important.”_

“You are a goose.” she says, and he scowls, swings her around. If he was hoping for a shriek of fear, that’s not what he gets-only laughter, and small hands gripping his shoulders, and a broad grin. “ _There’s_ the man I married.”

“Humph. I thought wives were supposed to be supportive.”

“I listen to you plot how to murder this poor boy, don’t I?” He sets her down and she straightens her dress. “Let’s go out for a walk. It’s a nice night, for once, and a little air might do you good.”

A little air might not do _her_ good-it’s barely been two months since that cough finally faded (and he’s not going to lie, there were a few nights that he thought it might just _stop_ ), and she’s still pale, and-

-and she’s flinging his hat at him.

“Where is your scarf.”

“Oh good God, it’s August, I am _fine-_ ”

“I will not hesitate to call your mother.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

The staring contest is brief. He is victorious.

“I can’t believe you.” she grumbles. “I don’t need a bloody scarf.”

“And I don’t need to come up with an epitaph for you.” He reaches over to fix it, ignoring her batting hands. “There. Shall we?”

It _is_ a nice night, actually-the stifling heat’s faded, the stars are visible, and it’s late enough that most of the population is off the street in some form or another.

They get popcorn from a street vendor and meander down a street that, in the daytime, is an open-air market. Now the stands and carts are away, and the few permanent establishments are locked down. There’s a few people here and there-raggedy urchins, mostly-but other than it’s very still and very quiet.

Which makes the gurgling horribly apparent.

“Jonathan-”

“I hear it.”

His initial idea is to leave, but curiosity (ah, Granny did try to beat that sin out of him…failed miserably, but tried) gets the better of him and he attempts to untangle his arm from hers, fails, and ends up letting her trail along as he walks towards the alley.

He doesn’t register what it is, at first. It looks like a bundle of old laundry. But then there’s another gurgle and it hits him that the laundry is, in fact, a person.

Then the smell of blood hits him.

“Good God-”

“Find a constable, I think they’re still alive-”

But she’s already gone. ‘They’ turns out to be a ‘she’, though her face is so mutilated she’s unrecognizable. He drops to his knees, sees _slashed throat_ , and tries to stem the bleeding with the knowledge that he can’t.

His palms have barely pressed against the ragged edges (and he’ll remember the feeling of torn flesh folding in on itself until the day he dies) when she chokes, wet and thick, and the gurgling stops.

He knows what it looks like, when someone dies. He was at his great-grandmother’s side when she passed. It was very anti-climactic, really. She’d gasped a few times, and stopped, and just…never started again.

Very much like this.

He straightens up, gloves warm and dripping, and it occurs to him that he should make sure the murderer isn’t still in the area…no, no, probably not-they could have hopped that gate, there, easy as anything.

“Jonathan, is she-this way, she’s here, my husband’s with her-”

“She’s dead.” And Kitty’s face is flushed, did she _run_ , for heaven’s sake, it’s too soon for that- “There was nothing I could do, Constable…”

“Commissioner James Gordon.” Well, well, isn’t that a stroke of luck. “I’m sure you tried, Mister…”

“Professor.” He strips off a sticky glove-these are ruined now-and offers his hand. “Professor Jonathan Crane. You’ve met my wife, Kitty, I see.”

Gordon nods and steps around him with a curt, “Don’t go anywhere.”

Fine.

He turns his attention to Kitty, who, thankfully, is not coughing. She’s wheezing a little though and he _will_ bring this up the next time she says, ‘fresh air will be good for you!’

“Can you breathe?”

She nods, holds up a finger.

“I’m fine, love. Just. Just a little winded, I’m all right.”

“You’re _sure-_ ”

“I’m sure.” She swallows, the redness finally seeping from her face. “The Commissioner gave me a bit of a fright, that’s all-I came ‘round a corner and he was _there_.”

“Hm.”

More officers are coming and he pulls her out of the way-just as _something_ jumps across the rooftops. He opens his mouth to call somebody over, but…but it’s gone, now. Like it was never there at all.

“Did you…”

“I thought I did.” His other glove is drying onto his hand. “But I’m not sure.”

THE END


End file.
